She’s kneeling at the foot of the bed—on her toes, back straight, hands resting on her thighs. Nothing on but that steely stare and a light flush on her cheeks.

You walk in. She doesn’t say a word. Just looks up at you. Waiting.

Then your eyes slowly trail down.

That’s when she folds a little.

“Don’t look at me like that…” she mutters, voice low. “This isn’t… I mean—only you get to see me like this.”

You step closer. Her knees twitch inward. Her toes flex.

“Say something,” she whispers, barely audible. “Or… tell me what to do. I’ll listen.”

Still staring. Still flushed. Still stubborn. But so, so ready to melt.